Rafe Marquez, 53, makes his living tearing apart rusted vintage motorcycles and putting them back together better than they left the factory. He’s got grease under his fingernails that never fully washes out, a scar across his left eyebrow from a crash when he was 22, and a rule he’s stuck to for 8 years: no events his ex-wife might crash. He only agreed to show up to the East Austin block party because his next-door neighbor, a retired teacher who brings him tamales every Christmas, begged him to haul out his fully restored 1972 Honda CB750 for the classic vehicle display. He’d planned to stay 10 minutes, grab a free beer, and bolt back to his garage.
He’s leaning against the bike’s tank, twisting the neck of a cold Shiner Bock so condensation drips onto his scuffed work boots, when he sees her. Lena Mendez, his ex-wife’s first cousin. He’d only met her a handful of times when he was married, mostly at Thanksgiving dinners where she’d slip him extra slices of pecan pie when his ex wasn’t looking, and he’d always had the dumb, unshakable thought that he was talking to the wrong cousin. She’s walking barefoot across the patchy grass, cutoff denim shorts frayed at the hem, a faded Willie Nelson tee that hangs off one shoulder, sunburn pink across her nose and freckles spreading down her collarbone. She stops half a foot from him, close enough he can smell coconut sunscreen and the briny tang of pickled okra on her breath, and smirks like she knows exactly how off guard she’s caught him.
She nods at the bike, her arm brushing his when she reaches out to run a finger over the custom flame paint job he spent three weeks airbrushing. “You still fix these old things? I drove past your shop last month, saw a 1968 Harley Electra Glide parked out front, almost stopped. Figured you’d slam the door in my face for being related to she-who-shall-not-be-named.” Her voice is low, rough from years of smoking menthols, and when she laughs, it’s loud enough to cut through the hum of the mariachi band set up at the end of the block. Rafe’s throat goes dry. He knows the rule. Messing with his ex’s family is the kind of drama he’s spent almost a decade running from. He can already picture the group chat blowups, the passive aggressive texts from his ex, the neighbors whispering behind their backs when they see him out with her.
But then she leans in a little closer, her shoulder pressed to his, and points at the scar on his eyebrow. “You still get into dumb crashes? I remember you told me you crashed that dirt bike trying to jump a cow on your cousin’s ranch. I laughed for three days after that.” Her hand brushes his bicep when she gestures, and the contact sends a jolt up his arm he hasn’t felt since he was a teenager sneaking out to make out in the back of a beat-up Ford F-150. He wants to tell her no, he doesn’t jump cows anymore, he spends most nights alone in his garage eating frozen burritos and watching old 90s racing tapes, he hasn’t even been on a date in 6 years. Instead he smirks back, takes a sip of beer, and says, “Only when the cow really deserves it.”
She laughs again, and this time she doesn’t move her hand from his arm. She tells him she moved back to Austin three months ago, got a job running the front desk at a low-cost vet clinic, lives in a little bungalow 10 minutes from his shop. She says she’s got a case of that rare German hefeweizen he used to rave about at family dinners, and the Spurs preseason game is on later, and her couch is way more comfortable than the rickety folding chairs he probably has scattered across his work space. Rafe’s brain is screaming at him to say no, to make up an excuse about a bike he has to finish for a client before Monday, to go home and hide like he always does. But he looks at her, at the way she’s holding his gaze like she’s not scared of the mess that might come with this, at the silver hoop earring catching the golden hour sun, and he realizes he’s tired of hiding. Tired of letting his ex’s choices dictate what he gets to have.
He pulls a greasy business card out of his work shirt pocket, scribbles his cell number on the back, and presses it into her palm. Her fingers close around his, warm and calloused from walking her 80-pound pit bull every morning, and she tucks the card into the waistband of her shorts, her thumb brushing the skin of his wrist when she lets go. “I’ll text you the address when I get home,” she says, and leans in to kiss his cheek, her lips soft and warm against his sunburned skin, before she turns and walks back to her group of friends.
Rafe stays at the party for another hour, talking to a 16-year-old kid who’s saving up to buy his first motorcycle, eating a grilled elote smothered in cotija cheese and chili powder, and he doesn’t once check his phone to see if anyone’s texted his ex about them talking. He doesn’t care. He’s got a game to watch, a cold beer waiting for him, and a whole lot of years of wasted time to make up for. He unlocks his bike, swings his leg over the seat, and revs the engine, grinning when he sees Lena wave at him from across the block.
